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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 12 - Hysteria

Chess games came and went; the week wore on, and Snape remembered, in vivid detail, just why it was he had been so glad to pass his Transfiguration NEWT and finally forget everything he had ever learnt about turning unlikely objects into even more unlikely objects.

His evenings were spent in his old rooms - now Hermione's - practising the same techniques until his wrists were sore; it would take rather more time before the muscles became accustomed to the movements again. Flicking a wand, twisting his wrist, ignoring the shooting pains that sparked through his hand and along his arm - he was trying to re-cram six years of classes into his mind in as many evenings, and it was not a particularly easy task.

It was made less easy by Hermione watching him - not continuously, she had her own work to get on with, but he was still conscious of her sitting there like some malevolent bat as she worked and looked up from time to time to watch his failures. She said little, but needed to say nothing. He had not been aware of just how expressive his face was when it came to show unease.

Classes were spent scribbling, slowly adjusting to the sight of Hermione's writing coming from his quill, or keeping his head down and hoping against hope not to be asked to demonstrate something in Transfiguration classes. McGonagall was being surprisingly co-operative in this, and Snape wondered whether Albus had found something which he could tell her - without actually telling her - that ensured she overlooked him. Whatever it was, he was not going to complain about the reprieve.

He had settled largely into a routine and so, he presumed, had Hermione; certainly no-one was asking questions. A cycle of sleeping, washing, eating and working. Any leisure time was taken up with Transfiguration practice and the continuing experiments to determine what, precisely, Neville had managed to achieve with one careless action.

Neville.

Snape was now certain that someone, somewhere, was ensuring that he paid for previous transgressions. Potions classes were, in many ways, more stressful than even Transfigurations - watching both Hermione and Neville was exhausting. Hermione was unnaturally competent at his job - not that he would ever tell her. Nonetheless, he didn't think he would ever relax as she taught, mentally couching her through the lesson just as he had done the previous evening as they worked together in the laboratory.

He knew he would never relax around Neville. He had always known the boy was a liability - and had know that Hermione helped him considerably, more so than he had let on - but somehow the actual extent of that liability had passed him by. How the boy could excel at Herbology and be so entirely useless at Potions which, after all, primarily used the results of his work in Herbology, was a mystery. Albeit not one which Snape was in any hurry to unravel.

Classes, though, were finally over for the week. It was Friday evening, and all he had to endure was dinner in the Hall between Tweedledum and Tweedledee. One day he would look up whichever Muggle story it was that those names came from and work out whether it was the insult that it sounded like for him to call Harry and Ron that.

Right now, Snape sat curled in the armchair in his rooms with the cat sitting on the back of the chair behind his head. He was tired - ridiculously tired, even allowing for the fact that it had been a long week. He vaguely wanted something to eat, but was certain that dinner wouldn't provide it - chocolate perhaps. Not an unreasonable response to low energy, after all, and maybe there would be something with chocolate for dessert; he still had the rest of the evening to get through, after all, and at the current rate of progress he would be asleep on the workbench in the laboratory before he had even begun the next round of experiments.

He just needed to get through the evening - tomorrow was Saturday, he could sleep as long as he wanted. Snape reminded himself of this, forcefully, and shoved down memories of last Friday night's personal entertainment. He hadn't repeated the experiment, although he was well aware that it would be only a matter of time before he did. The evenings this week had been long and tiring, and he had generally fallen asleep to dreams of morphing turtles and teapots without time to think about anything else. He had vaguely promised himself more experimentation this weekend but, he rather thought, it would not be tonight. The thought flickered through his mind that, perhaps, he shouldn't be promising himself the opportunity to play with someone else's body - but then again, this was his body for the next six months. And it wasn't as though he was planning to get a tattoo, or some other Muggle permanent marking. He was doing nothing that Hermione wouldn't do, of that he was certain. He wasn't quite sure why he was certain, except perhaps the responses of the body he was inhabiting, which had seemed to expect what he had done. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

In any case, he was certain Hermione had done the same thing with his body - and she didn't appear to be a hypocrite, to criticise what he had done whilst doing the same herself. She had to have woken at least once this week with an erection; he doubted whether his body would behave any better for her than it did for him, and he equally doubted that she would resist the opportunity, when faced with it, to experiment.

His thoughts were interrupted as the call for dinner chimed through the room, enchanted to reach every part of the castle, and Snape uncurled himself unwillingly from the chair. He stretched, somehow uncomfortable; he must have been sitting awkwardly, he thought. The cat leapt down from the back of the chair, turned around twice like a dog, and settled into the warmth he had left behind.

The hall was as noisy as ever as Snape settled into his seat next to Harry and across from Ron; there were no announcements tonight - there rarely were any on a Friday evening - and the food appeared in the middle of the table with some speed.

Snape looked at the platters and grimaced; he'd lost any appetite in coming down the stairs, it seemed. All he really wanted to do was go back upstairs and curl up to sleep. Still, it would cause far more comment than he was prepared to have to deal with if he did leave now, and so he waited for the plates to circle round to him. For once, he was glad that Hermione was vegetarian as he passed on the pile of steaks; he took small spoonfuls of vegetables and mashed potato and spent a few minutes staring at his plate, redistributing them as he waited for the meal to pass.

Glancing up at High Table he saw Hermione methodically working her way through dinner - the angle of the tables meant he saw little but her face, and she was staring at the table as she ate, apparently deep in thought about something. Well, that was a characteristic enough pose for both of them.

A sharp tug at his sleeve brought Snape's attention back to his table.

"Not hungry, Hermione?" asked Harry; the boy had cleared his plate at least once whilst Snape had toyed with his food. Snape shook his head.

"No, not really. Too tired."

"Serves you right for taking on that extra credit project then, doesn't it?" remarked Ron from across the table, speaking around a mouthful of half-chewed meat and potato. Snape grimaced and stared down at the table.

"Ron, learn some manners," retorted Harry. "I swear, if your mother could see you now ..." he laughed, mimicking Ginny; she was sitting some way down the table, so he wasn't in danger of her retaliation.

The implied threat worked, although the grin on Ron's face as he finished chewing and swallowed suggested that he might not have taken it as seriously as he appeared to. As soon as he finished though, he returned his attention to Snape.

"Hermione, why do you put up with the greasy git? It's not like you haven't got enough grades to outclass everyone else in the place! You're mad, you are, volunteering to go and spent more time with the old bat in the dungeons. What's he doing to you to tire you out, anyway?"

For some reason, Ron's questions were the last straw. Snape was horrified to feel his eyes fill with tears; never mind that it was an automatic reaction of a body not his own to feelings that it wasn't used to dealing with - this was still not something he wanted to have to deal with here and now. He wasn't even particularly bothered by the Weasley boy's comments; they weren't news to him, and were even a validation of the work he had done to be thought of in that way.

He ducked his head and tried to move, to get up and away from the table before anyone noticed the tears; Harry clamped a hand on his arm and held him in place.

"Hermione, what's wrong ...," he paused when he saw Snape's face. "Ah. Right, it's that time of the month again isn't it? Honestly, Hermione, why do you let it surprise you like this? Can't you get some chocolate from Madam Pomfrey in time next month?"

Snape froze, unwilling to allow his mind to reach the obvious conclusion. He was also rather unwilling to process the information that Harry apparently knew quite so much about ... no, he wasn't going to think about it. He. Was. Not. Going. To. Think. About. It.

Snape swallowed hard, forcing back the tears and feeling his eyes growing hot as he did so.

"I'm fine," he said, staring down at the table again before Harry could call him on it. He could feel Harry stare at him but, a moment later, the Boy Who Lived started a conversation with Ron who had, unsurprisingly, been oblivious to the whole thing.

Snape concentrated on breathing, blocking out all other thoughts as he did so. He wanted to look up to the High Table, to glare at Hermione for not having warned him about this - although, a small part of his mind protested, he should have worked out for himself that this would happen sooner or later. It might have been more worrying if he hadn't ... oh no, that possibility would have been ... thankfully, he rather thought Hermione was more sensible than to allow that to happen.

This was a nightmare. No more, no less, than undiluted terror. The tiredness had vanished as his mind tried to assault him with thoughts and random comments. How would he deal with it? How ... no. He wasn't going to think about it.

An elbow nudged his and a plate of chocolate pudding appeared in front of him; at least one thing was going right this evening. He turned and nodded his thanks to Harry before starting to eat slowly.

Snape had finished about half of the plateful when he became aware that someone was watching him; he turned surreptitiously and looked around. Hermione was watching him from High Table with a scowl on her face; Snape assumed she was getting concerned for her waistline again. Well, this time she could take her concern and ... he scowled back at her, letting all his feelings at this particular turn of events show, and had the satisfaction of seeing her apparently surprised.

He had, though, had enough chocolate for now and pushed his plate away.

Dinner was over. At last. Snape blended into the crowd of scurrying students and was swept out of the Hall; moving away from the phalanx of Gryffindors heading for the tower he fled down the stairs towards the dungeons.

The darkness swallowed him up and hid him until he reached his old rooms; the door yielded to his passwords and he sipped inside. A fire was already lit in the grate, and Hermione was half-hidden in one of the armchairs apparently waiting for him.

Her elbows were propped on the arms, hands steepled together just below her chin.

"What was that expression about?" she asked quietly. "What happened at dinner - you looked fine when you came in."

"Let's just say I had an unwelcome realisation," muttered Snape before raising his voice. "What is your preferred potion, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"My preferred ...? In what context?" asked Hermione.

"Think about it," he retorted acidly. "What's the date today?" Hermione still didn't appear any more enlightened so he tried again. "A month ago, Miss Granger. What happened to you a month ago?"

Hermione was silent for a moment or so longer, then her mouth twitched and Snape would have sworn that she was trying not to laugh.

"It wasn't exactly a month ago, Professor. Cycles aren't always as predictable as that - and no," she added, presumably having seen the expression he hadn't been able to hide, "it's usually longer than a month. About every five weeks or so, it's not entirely predictable. To answer your question, though, I don't use any of the potions. You'll find some -"

He interrupted her. "What do you mean, you don't use any of the potions?"

"Exactly that, Professor. I don't use them and neither will you, thank you. There are too many Muggle studies which indicate that there are some potentially serious long-term effects from suppressing the menstrual cycle other than through pregnancy. I'd prefer not to be dealing with ovarian cancer some years from now and, since I plan to regain use of that body within a few months, it will be me who has to deal with the outcome."

Snape glared at her. "It would only be for a few months," he snapped. "Hardly enough time to make any difference."

"Or it might make all the difference. I'm not taking the risk, so you will not use any of the menstrual potions. As I was saying," she added, pointedly, "you'll find some Tampax in a box in my bathroom. There's a leaflet inside which tells you what to do with them." The last was said in a rush after a short hesitation; Snape got the impression she had backed out of explaining how these Tampax worked.

"If you've got any problems, let me know. I find a hot-water bottle usually helps with the stomach ache, if you get one. It's not always the same."

Snape stared now at the fire; there were many things about his life that were not remotely fair. This, though, seemed to dwarf most of the rest - perhaps he would gain some perspective about it eventually but, right now, he wanted to howl with rage.

"We'll scrap this evening." He heard Hermione speak and vaguely understood that she was dismissing him. "You'll deal with it better soon, it's a bit disconcerting at first. I remember when ..." Her voice trailed off - either she had suddenly realised who she was speaking to, or she had changed her mind about sharing that particular part of her history with him. "Anyway, do you want to meet up again tomorrow?" Snape said nothing, still staring at the fire, trying to block out what was happening.

From the chair, Hermione sighed. "Professor, go upstairs and have a bath - as hot as you can stand it. Then go to sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow, I know you're not up to dealing with anything else this evening. Go!"

She had barked the last command and Snape found himself obeying almost without thought. He was suddenly very tired again, and it seemed easier to do as he was told. He wasn't aware that Hermione watched him with a worried expression as he left the rooms without a word.

His room seemed once more a haven, warm and comfortable. The fire had been restocked by the house-elves and the cat was still curled on the chair - he took no notice of Snape's near-catatonic re-appearance in the room but continued to sleep determinedly.

A bath. She had suggested a bath. Snape felt himself slowly return to the present, taking the problem he had been faced with and finally dealing with it. There was little point in blocking it out; it certainly wouldn't go away for lack of thought. Damn her for not wanting to use potions, though. Those potions had been used for centuries in the wizarding world without a problem, who was she to decide that they weren't appropriate? But then, she was Muggle - and whilst that didn't automatically make her irrational, she might perhaps be justified in wondering whether her physiology was the same as that of a multi-generational witch. Snape riffled through his memory, trying to recall any studies that had been done on the implications of long term medical potions use by Muggleborn witches and wizards; he couldn't remember any. There again, few studies were done on the efficacy of potions anyway; the assumption was that if the potion didn't cause an immediate problem, it would not cause any long-term problems.

Perhaps that would be a suitable area to research when ... Snape forced his mind away from academics and back to the immediate issue at hand, reinforcing the focus as he went into the bathroom.

The water was billowing steam from the taps, mixing a vanilla scent into the rising bath as he turned his attention to the cabinet. The vanilla was comforting, although he wasn't sure why he associated the scent with pleasure - presumably some long-ago treat that he no longer recalled.

From the cabinet he pulled the box of Tampax. He had thought it some kind of cotton wool when he glanced at it earlier but, clearly, it was something rather more specialised.

The bathwater shut off automatically once the bath was full, and Snape absently stripped himself of clothing as he looked at the box; it was not at all clear what he was supposed to do with the contents, although he had an unpleasant feeling that he knew what was coming. The blood on his underwear confirmed Harry's diagnosis - a thought he really didn't want to consider - as he pulled a slip of paper from the box. The contents were a series of paper-wrapped tubes, apparently. The unpleasant feeling intensified, and Snape slid into the bath, holding the paper up away from the water.

The warmth of the bath was soothing, and Snape found himself relaxing for the first time that evening; the drowsiness returned full force as he was surrounded in hot water. Then he picked up the paper, and the drowsiness fled.

She couldn't possibly mean that he had to ... yes, apparently she did. He stared at the instructions, half fascinated and half appalled. Rationality demanded that he acknowledge that, really, it was little different to what he had done last week - but that had been for entertainment; this was anything but entertaining.

Snape read the instructions twice; if he had to do this, at least he would do it correctly. Then he let his head drop back against the edge of the bath and groaned softly to himself. Why him? Why?

Eventually he could no longer hide in the bath; his skin was badly wrinkled as it was and the knowledge of what he was going to have to do had rather taken away any particular pleasure in the bath itself. He dried himself off then took a deep breath and picked up the box again.

It was, in the end, surprisingly straightforward. As with many things, the idea was more unpleasant than the reality. Once he had reminded himself - several times - that he had done more or less the same thing with his fingers, he almost convinced himself that it was absurd to be bothered about it. He had torn open the small package and eyed the white contraption with mild distaste before noting that it was, in fact, about the same size as his finger - not his current fingers, admittedly. Then, whilst his mind was preoccupied with trying to block out the thought of his usual fingers being involved in the same entertainment that he had explored with his current fingers, he had closed his eyes and dealt with the problem by touch - obviously the best way to do it.